Sand and Sun
by The Red Hoodie
Summary: Natasha Romanoff goes across the Atlantic for some time alone after the battle in New York. But maybe isolation isn't quite what she needs.


**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. I only own the written words and storyline.**

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Natasha didn't often take breaks. But after the destruction of New York City, all of the Avengers were given a break. Stark and Banner went off to spaz over science tech at Stark Tower. Captain actually got out into the world, taking a Harley and a new outlook with him. Thor took Loki and the Tesseract back to Asgard, and he would probably not be getting _any_ sort of break, but seeing that he was a god, it was to be expected. As for Barton…they parted ways at the airport.

SHEILD wasn't her only employer, however she hadn't given herself a break in months, and it was direly needed after the past few days. Had it only been a few days? It seemed to have happened over a longer period of time than that. Natasha still felt the tug of emotional turmoil she had felt with when she was seconds from being smashed and broken by the Hulk. It wasn't that she was scared of Banner…no, she was frightened because she could do absolutely nothing to stop him. She had never felt so helpless.

Her hands started to shake as she thought back, and she clenched them into fists as the plane flew over the Atlantic. She forced herself to take a deep breath…exhale…ask for another drink. This was a vacation; she was supposed to be _relaxing_.

The last time she was in Morocco, it had been for entirely different reasons. She had killed in this country…yet the memories were distant. She would just stay by the coast and enjoy the sun and the sand.

Her house was no more than an abandoned shell right on the beach. There was no working electricity and it was _remote_. She could set her emotions free here and not fear. She felt slightly freer than usual, knowing SHEILD wasn't tracking her every move. They could find her, yes, but they weren't currently watching her. She trusted Fury's word on that much.

She spent most of her time listening to the single CD she had brought on the small battery powered stereo. It was exotic…in a language she could get the gist of but was no expert in. It was soul moving music and one couldn't resist dancing to the languid sounds.

On her second full day in the country, she was doing just that under the bright sun. Rolling hips and arms were above her head as she swayed and moved along with the rhythmic beat of drums. The warm sand yielded to her toes as she danced, eyes shut, hearing the vague sounds of lapping waves against the beach along with the tune.

"Romanoff." The sudden voice caused her to instantly stop, hands dropping slowly to her sides. The voice was low and…it sounded not quite right, like someone was trying to disguise their voice.

She turned slowly, muscles tensed, only to let out a breath at the sight before her. "Barton," she replied, hints of a smile quirking up the side of her mouth.

Clint stood there smirking behind his sunglasses, looking oddly out of place in khaki shorts. Khaki? Since when did master assassins wear khaki? "Miss me?"

"I was taking a page from Banner's book," Natasha replied, reaching down to switch off the radio. "Isolation is good…for people like us."

He crossed his arms—uncovered and glistening under the sun—and nodded along. "Sure. I get the appeal. Middle of nowhere, no one to burst in on your personal time." He glanced behind him at the ramshackle house. "If you're all alone, why are you covering so much skin?" He tilted his head, eyes hidden behind dark lenses but obviously staring at the lack of skin she was showing.

"If I'm all by myself, who cares what I wear." She glanced down…black tanktop and bikini bottoms, mostly covered by a thin white sarong tied on the side in a double knot and keeping her legs from getting fried to a crispy lobster shade of red.

"Ah, but you're not alone now." Clint lunged forward, but she stepped out of his way, her back now towards the house. "C'mon, I've seen you show more skin during missions…"

Natasha scoffed. "Did you come all the way to Morocco just to see my legs?"

"They're nice legs."

She rolled her eyes and took a comfy step backward. "Why _did_ you follow me here anyway? We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves. That's what vacations are for." And this truly was a vacation for her; she didn't even have any espionage job lined up for when she got sick of the Moroccan sun and sand.

"It got boring," he replied with a shrug, glancing up at the house now in his sight. "How are you living in that thing?"

"What?" She placed a hand on her hip, the side with the knot. She wasn't going to get swindled by the archer. "Never stayed in such shabby conditions before?" She knew that wasn't true.

"I figured you'd go…classier."

"Classy doesn't usually go hand in hand with desolate vacations. I don't own an island." Sweat trickled down her neck and her free hand went up to brush away strands sticking to her jawline. With a tilt of her head, she began walking through the hot sand to the building. She heard him struggling through the thick sand; she had mastered how to make her way through the stuff the first day here. Even if she was alone, she hated assuming she looked ungraceful. It wasn't vanity; it was just against her nature.

"Sweet digs," Clint muttered as they entered, instantly feeling degrees cooler with the sun no longer beating down on them. He pushed his glasses to rest on his hair.

"I'll have you know, I have a mini fridge running on a generator that is stocked full of champagne," Natasha said over her shoulder as she walked over the sand layered floor—she had given up trying to clean up after the first night—to the biggest of the rooms. Inside was a flat couch covered in a thick sheet and a small fridge hooked up to a silent generator. Her dufflebag was in the cleanest of the rooms, though she knew she wouldn't feel truly clean until she moved to a place with running water and soap.

"Oooh, bubbly." He followed after her, eyeing the couch skeptically before testing it out, perching on the arm. It felt like he was sitting on a 2-by-4.

Natasha crouched down and pulled out a relatively chilled bottle of champagne. She reached to the side of the small silver box and pulled a thin dagger out of seemingly nowhere, so she could expertly pop the cork on the bottle. The cork flew toward the pane-less window, but bumped into the wall and fell to the floor instead. Forgoing any formalities, she sat herself down on the floor, using the couch as a backrest. It was more comfortable that way.

"Where did you go?" she asked before taking an airy swig from the green bottle.

Clint slid down to the floor next to her, kicking one leg up and resting his arm on his knee. "Here and there," he shrugged, taking the bottle. "Still caught some news though. Half of New York love us, the other half blame us for the trashed city."

Natasha scrunched up her nose and gazed across the room at the opposite wall. "I can't say that I blame them. All those alien carcasses…those enormous living ship…things," she struggled with the words to find to describe the enormous beasts and took the champagne that he offered.

"But some people are calling us heroes."

"Heroes?" Natasha almost scoffed again, gripping the bottle neck tighter than necessary. She wasn't sure if she deserved such a title. She had red on her ledger…she was doing all of this to wipe it clean. She needed to clear her conscious before she could think of herself as other than being a spy.

"And others call us freaks." Clint glanced out the open window. "I've been called worse."

"I don't think they were talking about us," Natasha said, voice a bit quieter. Here it was again…those shaking feelings.

Both of them grew quiet. Natasha took a drink from the bottle and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. Clint glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Tasha," he started, slowly, knowing just how to coax her, "are you sure you're doing alright?"

Of course she wasn't. Not entirely. Could anyone be _okay_ after what they had all been through? Even her; with her hardened and hidden emotions, was affected. She knew that Clint had had it just as bad as her, with his mind being overtaken. She didn't feel guilty about anything that had happened, however it affected her more than anything had affected her in a long time.

She had meant every word she had said to Banner after the explosion, before he turned into the Hulk. She was going to hand him off to a normal life after this…but had she really? She changed his life without even a hitch. She had even been slightly scared when he tested her in that bungalow, when he roared at her and she pointed a gun between his eyes. She hadn't even seen his transformation firsthand, only on video feeds…it had been so different, shocking, terrifying even, when it had happened before her eyes.

"Yeah," she finally said numbly, placing the bottle down on the floor between them and pulling her legs up to her chest. She looped her arms around them loosely and rested her chin on her knees. "I just hadn't felt…_scared_ in a while."

His eyes fell and he nodded slowly. "When Banner went Big Green Monster?"

She nodded, though the feeling was awkward in her position. "I'd just never felt so helpless. None of my punches or bullets would have even given me a second more of time." So help her if she started wondering how much of her had been acting during the interrogation she had with Loki. She _had_ been acting; but how affected was she really when she realized just how much Barton knew about her and imagined how Loki's plan of him torturing her would pan out. She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily before opening them wide.

"The Big Man is pretty fearsome…do you want to hug it out?" he offered, reaching out his left arm in her direction.

Pulled out of the past—she would forgive her vulnerability just this once—she snapped her head in his direction and broke out into an 'you are unbelievable' smile, pushing him on the shoulder.

He chuckled. "_Oh_, wanna spar, Romanoff?" he asked, voice serious, though his expression was anything but.

Natasha slipped easily to a standing position. "You just want to see me with my skirt off." Her hand rested on the lumpy knot of fabric.

Clint stood as well, tossing aside his sunglasses. "We both know you could use a round or two after all this _isolation_."

She narrowed her eyes at him before allowing the smallest of smirks to descend onto her features. "We just can't break the fridge," she set the only rule as she pulled out the knot and balled up the thin material.

"Oh…to die by those thighs would be a glorious way to die," he nearly drooled as Natasha made her first move.

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**A/N: Yes…yes I picked that last line from Renner himself. I thought it fit. Also…just a random little thought I had after seeing The Avengers for a second time in the four days it's been out. I can't help it, the movie is fantastical and amazing! Anywho, this is my first venture into writing anything comic-book that isn't X-Men, so I hope it's alright. You can decide what happens in the minutes after this fic. ;) Leave good reviews?**

**NEW! If anyone is interested in downloading and hearing this fic READ TO YOU, the link is below. It wasn't read by me, but by a lovely girl on tumblr! (And yes, she read it before I changed from Capsicle to The Red Hoodie.)  
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